


Learning the Ropes

by cerisedeterre



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Blindfolds, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Gags, Gym Sex, Light BDSM, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Power Exchange, Rope Bondage, Watching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:47:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22976398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerisedeterre/pseuds/cerisedeterre
Summary: “That’s America’s ass,” Sam says, and drinks water himself. “What would you do about it if Bucky were here?”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Kudos: 21





	Learning the Ropes

1.

Steve doesn’t get seasick. Ever. Or airsick. Ever. Yet here he is, in the gym on the helicarrier for what should be a normal workout, lifting just what he usually lifts, doing the usual uneven parallel bars flips and turnarounds for agility, punching the bags he’s supposed to punch—Super Soldier or no, he still has to work out—and he thinks he’s seasick. No, airsick. No, heartsick. 

It’s not about the air turbulence outside the gym, outside the helicarrier: it’s about how it feels being him.

Steve Rogers stops punching the punching bag. His sweat shorts—shorter than everyone else’s sweatshorts; he may have come from the 1940s but his workout gear comes from the 1970s—are just soaked. They’re almost falling off. He runs his fingers through his thick short hair, then looks up to the ropeworks and cords and catwalks at the top of the gym (the helicarrier really is big enough for a two-story gym), and then Cap puts his hands on his thighs and bends, slightly. He’s not panting. He’s not winded. He’s just sad.

“No way you’re fatigued, dude,” says Sam, who has to work out three times as hard as Cap in order to have half the strength. Sam’s red and white wing-pattern sleeveless T-shirt ripples around his own muscles as he walks across the gym floor to Cap, who straightens. 

Sam puts a hand on Cap’s sweaty pale shoulder. Cap thinks of Bucky’s hands, of Bucky’s arms, of Bucky’s lips. Bucky, now reconciled to Nick Fury’s new SHIELD and mostly deprogrammed, is on assignment in Auckland. Cap hasn’t kissed a man or a woman in a month, and Sam would be great as a substitute, Cap thinks—he and Bucky are certainly nonexclusive—except that Sam doesn’t kiss guys. Unfortunately.

“You’re just distracted because you’re missing him,” Sam says. “I get it. Have some water.” The Falcon gives Captain America a bottle of water with a SHIELD logo.

Cap takes a very long swig and then straightens up, picking up a barbell with one hand, a barbell too heavy for Sam to try. 

“It’s not just him,” Cap says. “I’ve been doing too much. Making too many decisions. Going on TV to cut promos for good government and then coming back here and fighting bad guys again. Throwing this shield around wishing I could get rid of it for a day, but it always comes back to me and hits me in”—Cap pauses; he has this thing about bad language, right from the 1940s—“the ass.” 

“That’s America’s ass,” Sam says, and drinks water himself. “What would you do about it if Bucky were here?”

“He would tell me what to do,” Cap says, and smiles—there’s that movie-star smile. The face that launched a thousand Liberty Bonds. The Super Soldier teeth. If Sam were into guys, he’d be all over Steve.

“What would he tell you to do?” Sam asks.

Steve Rogers blushes, which doesn’t happen every day, but it’s adorable when he does. He hesitates before speaking. “Bucky—James—Bucky would cuff my ankles, or my calves, and he would tie them to a post in the floor with rope.” Cap indicates a metal post. “Then he’d tell me to strip, slowly, until all my clothes were off or around my ankles, since I couldn’t get them off my feet. He’d make me sit down, or lie down, so he could see all of me. And then he’d tell me to touch myself—Sam, do you really want to hear this?”

“You are tired,” Sam says. “That was unexpected. But honestly? Yes. If my best friend wants to tell me, then I want to know.”

“He’d tell me to touch myself and when we got really into it he’d tell me not to come, I wasn’t allowed to come, and then he’d start just teasing me and teasing me, licking my ears, bringing my mouth close to his chest, taking out his--“ Cap looks down and notices, along with Sam, that the shape in his shorts has changed considerably. They’re even tighter now. “Maybe I’d better stop there.”

Sam chuckles. “Maybe you’d better.” And then Sam walks out of the gym.

Cap feels humiliated, suddenly, and then decides he trusts Sam. He’ll be OK. Maybe he should get himself off later, though. He’s frustrated, and he’s got more power than he can handle as America’s Most Trusted Hero, and he’s tired of punching things, and he’s horny, very horny. And very bi, but what woman—or what man—would take the risk of dating him in these close quarters, this intense a work environment? Even if he does have America’s ass.

Up in the catwalks, where she’s been practicing her stealth and her audio tools since this morning, Natasha smiles. She’s ready to make her move.

2.

Natasha picks a cable up there and slices it off its hinge so she can swing on it. She’s used to that. The mechanics on the helicarrier can fix it later; she’ll tell them it broke, or something, when she remembers. Then she swings down from the catwalk to perch on a basketball backboard, tumbling off it sideways so that her black jumpsuit catches the gym’s overhead light, then landing right in front of Cap. She gives him a toothy, knowing smile.

“How much of our chat did you overhear, Nat?” Steve Rogers asks, and she can’t tell if she’s embarrassed or happy: that’s the kind of grin he’s got.

“All of it,” Natasha says. “I have some special training in that department. Maybe I can help.” She pauses. “You’re going to have to do exactly what I say.”

Steve nods. He nods faster. He hasn’t nodded that way for anybody since Bucky left. 

Natasha looks around the gym. She’s got all the tools she thinks Steve wants her to use, right there, or else in her own zipped compartments. She’s going to give him what he needs.

First the blindfold. Fast, pulled out of the belt she never takes off, the one under her sweatshirt. Steve fights her, reflexively, and then gives in, willingly and completely. She pulls the reinforced wicking cloth—he’s going to sweat, and you don’t want a blindfold sweaty—up and back and tight. She scrutinizes the way it slides over and under his dirty-blonde hair.

Then she kicks his feet out from under him. He lands, hard, on America’s ass. She wouldn’t do that to a partner with a normal sense of pain—never to Tony, for example, and never to Maria Hill; she’d only do it to Bobbie if she asked for it (which she did, once, but that was last month). With Cap, though, when he’s in a certain mood, he wants you to make sudden moves, to disorient him, to show him Steve Rogers is not in charge. And he’s hard to hurt. 

He lands on the floor of the deserted gym, blindfolded, almost splayed on his back, his heels on the wood floor, and just as he’s placing his elbows on the floor too, working to lift himself up, Natasha climbs on top of him and pins him back down. “You’re staying right there, Rogers, until I tell you that you can get up and go.”

“No,” Rogers says, quietly. That’s not the safeword. 

“Do I need to put my shirt in your mouth?” Natasha says, her lithe body moving down his torso slowly. He can feel her loose sweater against his ribs, his six-pack, his belly button, his pelvis, the space between his thighs.

“No. Yes. No,” he says. Still not the safeword.

She rips a black cotton rectangle from the bottom of her cotton workout pants, stretches it out a little and sniffs it—it smells like Natasha Romanov sweat and lime and gin and mornings—and then shoves the rectangle into Cap’s mouth, careful not to block his nose: she knows how to hurt, or kill, with a square of cotton, but that’s the opposite of what she’s doing for her extremely American friend.

“Snnnmmmmm. Mmhhrghflth,” Cap says. Still not the safeword.

On top of an immobilized Steve Rogers—who might be moaning with pleasure already—Natasha takes a moment to reflect. When she escaped the Red Room and the former Soviet Union she knew she’d have to unlearn so much in order to make real friends, to become herself: she had no idea that so many of her dangerous techniques could turn, with advice and patience, into so much fun.

“Mmmmh. Flgh!” Cap exclaims. She thinks that she can see him smiling through the gag.

In one smooth motion, she dismounts from his body—he’s still lying on his back—and loops red synthetic rope around both his ankles. He’s not going anywhere till she’s through. Till they’re through.

3.

She yanks off the blindfold, leaving his ankles tied up and her cotton in his mouth. “You’ll see what I tell you to see,” she says. “And you won’t touch yourself. You won’t touch anything. You will keep your hands right by your sides where I can see them.”

Rogers nods from between her legs as she stands up, slowly, rolling her pants down to reveal the strap holster, the superthin laser weapon in its holster on her left leg under the leggings, where she could rip off the leggings to reach it, and the slim knife on her right thigh. Both weapons hit the floor. Now he can see all the way up to the parts of her that, when and where he grew up, he would never been allowed to name. Mesh panties: he can see her skin. He watches as she straddles him.

“Now I am going to show you what I can do,” she says. “And you will do nothing. Keep your hands to your sides!” She reaches into the jacket she’s still wearing—from above, Cap thought it was a jumpsuit, but it’s not, it was a leather jacket with workout pants! very Nat—and she takes out a black square the size of a quarter and it nearly jumps out of her hand, right onto her panties, into the red hair around her clit. Right where it belongs.

“What can you do?” Cap tries to say, but of course he can’t say anything with that cotton square all in his mouth. It comes out “wwwwww kkkkk!”

“I can do anything I want to do,” Natasha says, and she’s not too far gone into her own pleasure right now to realize that it’s true: she’s her own person. Not the Red Room’s, not Rogers’s, not Clint’s, not anybody’s. She can do anything she wants to do, and right now she wants to make him watch.

The black square hums. She places her left hand near it. She sits down again with her legs spread and her knees up, so that his bound ankles—he’s still lying on his back on the gym floor—stay right between her legs. Then she presses down on his feet and pushes up from behind his calves, leaning forwards, so that her strength—an ordinary human couldn’t do this—forces him to stand upright, ankles still tied together, so that he’ll fall over if he tries to make a move. His hands remain at his side. His mouth is still full of black cotton. His eyes are on her, wide-open, just on the right side of the line between erotic desire and fear.

“Stay and do not touch yourself at all! Just watch,” she says, and lies back and starts touching herself, first with one hand and then with the other, her jacket still on. “Watch what I do and take notes in your head, remember exactly what you’re seeing, there will be a test,” Natasha says, smiling. “But no touching. In fact, no movement from you at all. Stay perfectly still, Steve Rogers. Just watch.”

Then she stops caring what he does: she’s lost in herself, in a wet black space of perfection, like swimming and hiking and climbing a mountain till she reaches the summit where she’s free and she can almost fly. There’s a sun on that mountain and it’s shining so bright, so warm, that it warms her clit, and it opens her up inside, it’s like she’s being penetrated by the sun itself except that she’s the sun too, the sun is her best friend from school, the sun is Steve Rogers, the sun is Tony watching Steve and Tony touching Steve—

and she’s all the way up inside herself, aloft in the sunshine of an orgasm so slow and lovely in the way it proceeds, so sudden in the way it starts, that she shudders inside her leather jacket and feels the material shift. She wants to kiss Tony. She wants to kiss Rogers. She wants to kiss Tony kissing Steve Rogers and touch herself while she’s doing that, like she just did. 

She closes her eyes and then opens her eyes after a few centuries or a few seconds or maybe ten minutes—it was ten minutes-- and there’s Captain Rogers, Captain America, tied and almost silent and absolutely still.

“Now do what you saw me do,” she says. “But do it to yourself while I watch. But Not Yet.”

His eyes are wider than a Super Soldier’s eyes could seem to get. His elbows twitch. He’s all in on her pleasure, he’s seen her commune with herself, he wants some of that. But she won’t let him get it. Yet.

“What would you say to Bucky,” Natasha asks Steve, “if he were here?”

“Mmmphf,” he says. She takes the cotton out of his mouth. “Bucky I miss you I want you. I want Natasha. I want you. I want you to have Natasha.” He’s already more excited than she thought, so excited that he’s speaking a barely coherent subtext, whatever turns him on. His hand starts to move towards his own crotch.

“Not yet,” she says. She takes out more red ropes, thin ropes, and ties them loosely to two poles near the gym wall, so he can move freely but couldn’t run or walk away.

“Lick me,” Cap says, commandingly. He wants her touch, if she won’t let him have his.

“Not yet. Who are you to give me orders?” Natasha responds.

He mews.

“You will not touch yourself until I say so,” Natasha says. “And you will not come.” Then she licks his bare calf, his shorts, his thigh. And then she pulls back and stands up, facing him. “Now tell me why you want to come.”

“I want to come because I want to come!”

“Not good enough. Why should I let you?”

“You—you care about me enough to lick me! You have to let me come!”

“I won’t let you.” Natasha pauses and licks him again. His whole face is straining, in pleasure, in pain. “You’re not allowed to come.”

“I can’t—“ She squeezes America’s ass and then owner of that ass almost falls down, does fall down, into the rope mesh, they both fall together and she’s holding him, nobody’s hurt of course but it’s a clumsy bit of humor in what had otherwise been a choreographed scene. He’s fallen back into that mesh of red ropes, which support him: it’s almost like a vertical hammock.

Maybe she meant to do exactly that. She reaches into the other pocket of her leather jacket and pulls out a secure video-capable miniphone, the kind they use in the field.

“You still can’t touch yourself,” says Natasha. “You haven’t persuaded me. But maybe you’ll persuade him.”

The phone whines. There’s a face in it. Bucky Barnes on the line.

4.

Bucky’s face fritzes and whistles into view on the phone’s palm-sized screen. It’s not exactly HDTV, but it’s him. Cap stares wide-eyed at his first, best, hottest male friend. 

Before Bucky sees him—before Bucky answers and clicks to video-- he sees the number. That’s how he knows it’s Natasha. 

“Just took out a third troll farm. Your maps were superb,” Bucky congratulates Black Widow. “Those guys hate elections almost as much as they hate us.” 

Then he sees. Then he realizes that Cap is lying on his back, stuck in a hammock, in a sweaty T-shirt and halfway-off gym shorts, with his hands free but mysteriously at his sides, as if he wanted to stay that way. As if he were taking, not orders (he is a military man after all), but Orders. Those kinds of orders. 

“I see you’ve got Cap on the, um, ropes there. To what do I owe the, uh, pleasure?” Bucky asks slowly, confused and amused. 

Natasha says something in Russian.

“Oh. OH,” Bucky says. Cap nods. Cap can read Russian but has trouble speaking it, especially when he’s…. distracted. His shorts are beyond a tent—they’re turning into a kind of fabric loop, tent-poled, maybe, inside his combat-ready sweat-wicking combat-worthy underwear. Of course he can’t do anything to pull them back down, because he might come if he gets his hands anywhere near there, and he’s not allowed to come.

Natasha says something else in Russian. Bucky says yes, absolutely. At least, that’s what the nodding and the enthusiasm in his stubbly, friendly face suggest to Cap. 

Still holding the phone in her hand, so Bucky can watch, Natasha runs her tongue over Cap’s T-shirt, lifts it up to lick his belly fur, his sternum, his nipples, the hair around his nipples, his pecs, and circling back below them, his six-pack. She lifts her head up. He’s unbearably aroused.

“You can touch yourself now,” Nat says. “But only below your T-shirt, above your waist.” She climbs out of the hammock-rig and places the phone on top of a pommel horse, so that Bucky looks down on Cap. Then she slides her own hands along her thighs, under her pants.

Cap, breathing more heavily, looks at Natasha, who runs her other hand through her hair, and stares back at him, and says “Touch yourself now. Now. You must. I’m giving you orders. Touch yourself. But do not come.”

Cap looks at Bucky, who nods. Then Rogers runs his left hand along his ribs, across his sternum, down to his belly, where the hair starts, pushing his T-shirt up in the process, teasing himself, and teasing Natasha too, as he moves his hand below his bellybutton, towards his waist, his thighs. Cap’s whole face is rapt. He’s in another world. Subspace.

Natasha shakes her head. Cap looks at Bucky, and Bucky, smiling broadly, shakes his head.

“Now go lower. But don’t touch your cock. You’re not allowed to touch your cock,” Natasha says. “Only I can do that.” Then something in Russian, for James Buchanan Barnes’s ears only.

Cap’s hands obediently go lower, between his hips and his considerable thigh muscles, sliding one and then the other into the space where his inner thighs meet his crotch. He has to angle both hands carefully to avoid coming, to avoid touching where he’s not supposed to touch, and yet to remain obedient to Natasha. It’s hard. Fortunately he’s agile. 

Also it (his cock) is extremely, ridiculously, hard. Because Bucky can see it. He wants to stay hard for Bucky. The cone at the end is just pointing towards the stars. There’s a drop of pre-come on it too.

He looks right at Bucky, who surprises him.

“The play is Cleveland,” Bucky mouths to Cap, who smiles even more broadly than before. The two of them have become very good, almost supernaturally good, at reading other’s lips.

Then—as if on cue-- Black Widow shears off her pants entirely and throws herself at the vulnerable and ultra-turned-on, super-attentive Captain America, taking his wrists in her hands, straddling him and first keeping her belly above him, then sliding the condom on—the best condoms are, of course, made of unstable molecules—then lowering herself onto him, little by little, until he’s starting to penetrate her from below, without touching or moving his own cock at all: he’s just… where she places him, almost unbearably slowly, as first the cone, then the shaft, go up and inside. Inside (she can feel the thrusts move upwards into the space of her belly muscles, because everything is connected to everything else, and being this turned-on makes her extra-aware of all those connections). Inside.

She can feel herself opening up, also slowly, so slowly, as she feels his shoulders, his upper arms, his elbows under hers, as she takes her martial arts skills—she knows exactly where every part of her body is at all times and down to the millimeter- and uses them to shape and adjust his super soldier of a sensitive man-part inside her, cone and shaft and base with the scratchy hair that’s enmeshed with her hair there, farther and farther inside her, through the narrow part of her anatomy and into the space where she opens out and her flesh—

\--and then the turn-on she already has gets turned upside down, first with panic and then with adrenaline that means nothing but excitement, she knew what was coming, she knew Cap wouldn’t be coming quite yet, even though he’s close, so close, and she’s this close to coming again, she holds him fast and tries to keep him pinned down in the collection of ropes and now Bucky is saying something, it’s happening fast, so fast, she’s got vertigo and she has to keep from striking back or pulling out and it’s more exciting—

“Toledo,” Bucky says—

\--and Cap has flipped her over and shoved them both out of the hammock so that they land on the hard gym floor and her back hurts just a little, good thing she knows how to land, and how he’s on top of her, she’s pinned, he’s still inside her, the whole situation would be scary and not sexy at all except, except, except she knows him so well, he knows he’s doing this for her, it’s a power exchange among the three of them and she has no doubt that he does almost exactly this with Bucky when he’s inside Bucky, when Bucky’s not far away smashing troll farms, probably they do this remotely, they’re doing it remotely right now: “I’m going all the way with you, Natasha!” Cap says, knowing Bucky can hear everything, and it’s such an absolutely goofy way to say they’re having Intercourse that Natasha would laugh except she’s so turned on that she can’t speak, she just expands and contracts around him as he holds her down and thrusts and goes farther and “Take him!” Bucky says. “Take her!” And they have each other, and Bucky has him. Has them.

Cap stays inside Natasha for who knows how long after he comes, so that she can come again, touching herself gently slowly faster and still gently, while Bucky looks right at her, as if through Cap’s eyes.


End file.
